taiga lolita
by paper piper
Summary: you're my goose bump buddy. -taiga/ryuuji


A/N: Hamlet said "words, words, words"- well, here's a few words for Taiga and Ryuuji.

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><p>.<p>

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_Lolita_

Frills and ribbons and mary jane shoes—a real little girl. Ryuuji was already an inherently shy boy, and it did not help matters for him to walk alongside Taiga and see people glance at them in curiosity. He was sure they were quite a pair: he, tall and dark and frightening, and she, a tiny girl who could have been a middle schooler. Dressed in pink sundresses that made her look even younger.

But she looked so _right_ in them, too. He liked how the dresses fluttered gently in the wind and how _sweet_ her hair looked, tied in a cornflower blue ribbon. He liked the lace against her skin. He liked the tight, tiny body that was flat as a board and had slim, boyish hips and a pair of short, tan legs—topped off with the roundest, widest, most childlike eyes he had ever seen.

He felt like poor Humbert Humbert, doomed and ridiculous.

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_Accident_

"Shit!"

Ryuuji looked over at his side: Taiga cut her hand, again. "Taiga, you don't have to help."

She slid her eyes his way with a haughty turn of the mouth. "I know, _dog_, but I am going to. Don't tell me what not to do."

"Well, if you're going to bleed all over the food—"

"I'll get it, alright? Stop nagging."

He sighed and pulled another bandage from his pocket. "Give it here." She allowed Ryuuji to inspect the cut, spread Neosporin on it to prevent infection, and finaly to finish it with a neat placement of a bandaid. Had he not been so intensely focused on his task, he might have noticed that Taiga's face was red and shiny. When he turned away to finish preparing the fish for the meal, and she continued shopping vegetables, a secret smile lighted Taiga's face.

A few minutes later, "Ah, dammit, again!"

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_Cringing_

Ryuuji watched her, always. She gobbled, she yelled, she fought, she argued, she demanded, she grinned, she caused trouble, she brought pain and irritation—and pleasure. Sweet, fresh, gripping pleasure: the kind of harsh taste of a cold cherry on his teeth.

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_Halt_

Taiga had warning eyes.

When Ryuuji glanced at her, she would hood her dark orbs and glare—or simply look away.

_"Don't,"_ they said. _"Don't look too closely."_

"Damned child," he growled at times.

Taiga barely flinched at his anger. She just hooded her eyes—and held out her plate. "More, dog." And the words meant: _Go ahead, hate me. Please hate me. I wouldn't know what to do with kindness anyway._

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_Castle_

She needed so badly to be a child. Part of childhood is an absolute assurance that you'll be loved—and that was the part Taiga missed. She was allowed to languish at all hours of the day, dreaming and wishing and pretending she was a princess locked in a tower—but there was no prince, no knight in shining armor, to call to her window and ask her down.

…Taiga stirred and became aware that someone was calling her name.

"Taiga, Taiga,"—it was the soft, rough voice of Ryuuji. "Breakfast, Taiga," he said, rocking her shoulder through the comforter. She pried one eye open just as Ryuuji pulled her blanket away from her face. "Come down, Taiga," he told her, "our breakfast is ready, and you'll be late for school."

Light spilled inside and illuminated her.

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_Audience_

Everyone always had the wrong idea about them—Taiga and Ryuuji were _neighbors_, that was why they went to school together. She lived alone, that was why they ate meals together. Okay, she was in his apartment a lot—so what if he arrived at school some mornings, having forgotten that he was wearing her hair clips while he was making breakfast? So what if he made both of their lunches, identical bentos of rice, veggies, sausage, and curry? His mother loved Taiga. Taiga loved Ryuuji's mama. And so what if she called him "dog," it's not some weird kinky nickname!

No one understood: that's why the tiger and the dragon stuck together.

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_Yellow_

Taiga, a palm-sized tiger, a wave of long yellow hair with a girl attached to it. That hair twisted and sprang and billowed and ran down her shoulders and spilled to the middle of her back.

Quite without meaning to, Ryuuji found himself leaning a little too close. Strange, he would have expected her to smell like food (_his food_), but the scent that lingered to his nose was like warm bed sheets on Sunday. It was familiar, comfortable as the split second before waking from deep sleep. He thought he'd like to bury his nose in her, just to see if he could find rest there.

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_Goosebumps_

Those lovely little raised bumps that crawled along their arms. When he accidently reached out, unthinking, and touched her. When she grabbed his shirt in blind, instinctive need. When they made eye contact and realized they each thought the other alluring.

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_Safe_

Her favorite place to sleep was sprawled across his chest. Sometimes she woke up randomly in his apartment, in his living room, still in her clothes or pajamas, head tucked neatly under his chin, one hand clutching loosely to his shirt, and the other on his bicep. His fingers tangled in her hair.

She got up and went to her own bed before he could wake—before they could see something in it that they shouldn't.

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_Tantrum_

She was her rage. Ryuuji was appalled at the way she could spring at someone in sudden anger, the quick way she took offence, the way her eyes could suddenly flash, as if her very soul had been cut through. He was often her first and last victim of the day.

"Ryuuji, you dog, where's my food!"

"Ryuuji, when are you going to help me?"

"Ryuuji, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Ryuuji!"

"Ryuuji!"

Her tiny little voice crackled in his ears. She was going to kill him. Finally, he whipped around at her and hollered, "Taiga, shut the hell up! I am not here to serve a spoiled brat who has not an ounce of gratitude!"

He blinked; she was quiet a moment before speaking.

"You dare to talk to me like that, _dog_?"

Most of the time he wouldn't dare, but tonight, he did: he sensed something deeper, more troubling in her voice. He needed to know what it was.

"_Yes, bitch_," he spat.

She launched her body toward him, sword flying, curses ringing, arms flailing. "_No one calls me bitch especially my fucking dog you dog you_!" she cried.

He dodged and took her sword away so she was left with only her hands—and they weak with exhaustion at that. She tried to beat him into obedience, but he dodged and finally clasped her to him. She was shaking, livid. She tried to fight him still, but he did not let her move.

Then she wept. Big, sloppy tears, her hair hanging over her eyes and cheeks, and still he held her while she struggled with herself. She wet his shirt through, but he did not pull back. Then, in the softest tones, she murmured brokenly, "_I'm sorry, Ryuuji_."

He stared at the ceiling and steeled himself for her pain.

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_Tease_

The little sliver of hair that had escaped from her bun to lie against her neck. Ryuuji flushed and quickly fixed it for her, before someone else could notice how nice it looked, or to wonder if she would object if he took that strand in his fingers and kissed it.

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_Hands_

She'd be lying if she said they had a strictly Platonic relationship. Hadn't she said one night, in the heat of a moment, with both their faces flaming, all four hands trembling—"_You make my soul quake_"?

She liked his long, slim fingers, the way they moved, swiftly, skillfully, lithe as a cat, over her. They were the hands of a man, on her. Though Ryuuji was still a boy in many ways, he had the hands of a man—rough hewn, worked, gripping, bruising, eager. He was clumsy in love and in speaking, but his hands were beautiful.

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_Mending_

They used to be afraid of everything.

He—of girls (in general), of judgment, of his father, of her. She—of rejection, of pain, of love, of hope.

Two children clutching at each other because—because—because they were all each other had. They were not sure exactly how it happened, but one morning, they woke up and realized—the hate was gone.

Now, she laughed in his arms, as bright and carefree as a summer sky. A summertime girl. A creature born of light.

He even gathered her, flushing and stammering, close to his chest so he could revel in the idea of just having her there.

As if it were entirely natural to grow up together, find themselves in each other, and heal because of it.

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><p>AN: "Humbert Humbert" is the protagonist from Vladimir Nabokov's _Lolita_

A/N: So? Review, son! **Reviews keep me writing** :D


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